


lovecraft in brooklyn

by impossiblyincredible



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, but for the most part i'm gonna save it for later chapters, canon-typical supernatural bullshit, set in S1, the jongerry is there if you squint rly hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblyincredible/pseuds/impossiblyincredible
Summary: “Gerard Keay? You’re Gerard Keay?” The building wave of this-is-not-right crests, and every bit of unease he’d been feeling until now comes to a head. Previous statements flit through his mind, and he starts connecting them with the man sitting on top of his desk; was this the same person who burned Ex Altiora? The one who killed a man in front of Lesere Saraki?Gerard sighs, as if he’d been expecting this. “One and only.”
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 138





	lovecraft in brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i am so so intrigued by what could've happened if jon and gerry met earlier, so this is very much a "what-if" fic that took up way more space in my brain than it was supposed to
> 
> hope you enjoy!

The strange man in the library unnerves him. Jon’s there quite often, but he hardly ever sees non-employees there, and  _ certainly _ none as conspicuous as the person he’s squinting at now. Jon’s fully aware of how the Institute is perceived around London, and while, technically, the place is open to the public, he’s reasonably sure the second floor of the Magnus Institute's library isn’t anyone’s first choice for a nice day trip. It is, of course, possible that the man is here to give a statement, but he doesn’t look the part, sprawled across two chairs, staring down at his work like it's personally offended him.

If he’s here to give a statement, why is he in the library? Jon notes his long hair, his all-black ensemble and the silver jewelry draped all over him; he certainly  _ looks _ like the type to run into a supernatural experience. He rather looks like the supernatural experience itself. Something about him rings a bell, but for the life of him, Jon can’t put his finger on it, and for a brief moment, he panics. Is this someone he’s supposed to know? He doesn’t realize he’s frowning until the man waves at him lightly; Jon’s face heats up, and he hastily turns back to the shelf in front of him, before realizing he never waved back. He glances back, but the man has returned his attention to the papers spread all over the table. 

Shaking himself out of it, Jon finds his book, hurrying over to the checkout counter. “Er— Leanne?”

“Jon!" she says, smiling up at him as she scans the book. " _Biological Toxins and Bioterrorism?_ My, what have you got now? This looks hideous.” 

“What? Oh, yes, something about a sentient wasp’s nest that won’t leave this woman’s flat,” he replies absently. A beat passes.

“Well! You have fun with that, then, dear.” She raises her eyebrows in a way that makes it clear it’s not her problem and that she decidedly  _ won’t _ be asking too many questions. Jon wishes he could say the same. Handing the book back, she tells him, “Here. Back in twenty-one days, but—”

“Right.” They both know he’ll tear through it and have it back by the end of the week at the latest, but custom is custom, he supposes. Before he can lose his nerve, he gestures behind him and blurts out, “D’you know who that is?”   


She adjusts her glasses and scans the library curiously. “Which one? Dye job or pink hat?”

“Er—” He turns, squinting at the man’s lighter roots. “Dye job.”

“Nope,” she says, popping the  _ P _ . “He comes in every now and then, though. Finds himself a table and just reads for ages.”

Jon hums in acknowledgement. “Interesting.”

“Reminds me of my wife, actually, but I’ve never spoken to him. But if you wanted to, you know—” Leanne lowers her voice and leans over the counter gleefully. “—get to know him, you should go!”

It takes Jon a moment to grasp her meaning, but when he does, he nearly trips over himself explaining that no thank you, he’s not going to go over there and accost the nice goth while he’s _working_ , of all things, and he certainly isn’t  _ interested _ in him, so it’s a horrifically unprofessional moot point either way. Leanne has the audacity to laugh at him, and he grumbles, “You know, I like you less and less every day.”

“If that’s the case, I can direct you to any one of the— oh dear, I’m the only librarian here,” she replies wryly. He rolls his eyes, but she only grins.

As he leaves the library, he pauses and turns back one last time, and it’s uncanny, really, how the man at the table manages to look up at the perfect moment to catch his eye. He raises one eyebrow as he pulls his long hair into a low bun, and Jon's face burns with embarrassment. He manages to hold the man's quite unnecessarily amused gaze for one heroic second before fleeing back to relative safety of the archives.

———

He sighs, pushing away the papers on his desk. Follow-up with this one has gone absolutely nowhere, and with Martin off, Jon decided to handle this one himself instead of delegating it to the others, but he almost regrets it. Something about Jane Prentiss’ statement—everything about her, really—sets him on edge. A quick glance at the clock makes him groan, putting his head in his hands, because it’s well past time to leave, and here he is, still where he started. 

As he steps out of his office into the open area where the assistants' desks are, he stops dead in his tracks. The man from the library sits at Martin's desk, laughing with Sasha like they're old friends. They look up when he enters, and the man's expression doesn't change as he looks at Jon like  _ they're _ old friends, twirling a silver chain around his fingers. His eyeliner is really rather well done, and it emphasizes his startlingly grey eyes as he smiles at Jon, scanning him up and down.

"Mr. Sims!" he says lightly. Behind him, Sasha raises her eyebrows.

He nearly drops his bag. "Er—" 

Before he can get a question out, Sasha intervenes. "Jon, this is... Ray, was it? He said he wanted to talk to you about something?" She ends it as a question rather than a statement, glancing at Ray as he nods.

"Yeah, but she said the Archivist was busy, and it wasn't  _ terribly _ urgent, so I just waited," Ray continues. Now that he's closer, Jon notices, with fascination, several eye tattoos lining his knuckles and on his wrist. They fill him with unease, and Jon can’t shake the nagging feeling that he  _ knows _ who this is. "This an alright time?"

It's not as though Jon had any plans for the evening, so he nods, confusion slowly turning to curiosity. What could this  _ Ray _ want? "Yes, I— it's fine. My office?"

"Sure," Ray replies easily. He turns back to Sasha and grins. "You're gonna have to show me how to get into the Sectioned records sometime, yeah?"

"It wasn't that hard! I could show you in ten minutes."

"But I haven't been able to manage it, and you really,  _ really _ have no idea how useful it’ll be."

Jon watches this exchange utterly mystified, but seeing Sasha so at ease with this man makes him feel slightly better. Even if he doesn't know who Ray is, he trusts her judgement implicitly. She looks like she's about to ask what sort of work requires access to classified police records, but she stops herself before the question gets out.

Her voice is heavy with meaning when she says, "And don't forget, Jon, you've got dinner with Tim at seven tonight, and you  _ know  _ how he gets when people are late." He frowns, confused. He didn’t  _ think _ he had dinner with Tim, and moreover,  _ Tim’s _ usually the one that’s late, but— all of a sudden he realizes what she’s doing, and he feels a rush of gratitude. It seems she wasn't entirely at ease after all; she's leaving him a way out, while simultaneously insinuating to Ray that if Jon goes missing before then, he's automatically the prime suspect. Oh, Jon will never, ever tire of Sasha’s quick thinking.

"Right. Dinner," he says, blinking. "With Tim." 

She looks at the ceiling in exasperation and logs out. "I was just about to go home, so don't stay too late, alright?"

"Yes, all right,” he concedes. 

“See you on Monday, Jon!” she calls, closing the door and leaving him to stare at Ray warily. Something about this man is  _ off _ somehow, as though he’s wearing a coat that’s three sizes too big for him, and Jon leads the way into his office with a mounting sense of importance. Not fear or mistrust, necessarily, but a feeling that something drastic is about to change.

Ray makes a beeline for Jon’s desk, hopping up onto it and seeming right at home. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he says, eyeing the piles of papers on the surface of the desk.

Jon feels like an idiot, staring at him blankly, so before he can think about it, he blurts out the first question he can think of. “Have you really been here  _ all _ day?” 

It comes out harsher than he intends, but he’s certainly curious and more than a little worried. It had been nearly six hours since they’d seen each other in the library, and the thought of a stranger staying at the archives that whole time waiting for him is frankly, disconcerting at best. He can’t stop staring at those tattoos.

“Grabbed a panini from the nice place down the street, took a walk, but yeah.” Ray shrugs. “More or less.”

“Ah.”

“So, first thing,” he begins, so casually that Jon almost misses it. “My name’s not Ray.” Jon’s brain short-circuits, and for one painfully awkward moment all they do is stare at each other. 

“...Oh.” So there  _ was _ something off about him, Jon thinks with relief, and the tension in his shoulders starts to dissipate. “Er— what is it really? And why didn’t you want to tell Sasha?”

“It’s Gerard. And—” 

“Gerard  _ Keay _ ? You’re Gerard Keay?” The building wave of  _ this-is-not-right _ crests, and every bit of unease he’d been feeling until now comes to a head. Previous statements flit through his mind, and he starts connecting them with the man sitting on top of his desk; was this the same person who burned  _ Ex Altiora _ ? The one who killed a man in front of Lesere Saraki?

Gerard sighs, as if he’d been expecting this. “One and only.”  


“Oh, I should’ve known,” Jon mutters to himself. “I  _ knew _ you! I—”

“Recognized me, did you?” He looks mildly pleased with himself, glancing down at the eyes tattooed over his hands. “I’m flattered.” 

Despite his mounting unease, Jon snorts at that. “Don’t be. It’s the, ah,  _ imperfect _ dye job that’s mentioned most.”

Gerard looks up with indignation. “You try consistently dyeing your hair black! While on the run! And by yourself, no less!” 

Jon almost wants to laugh at the look on his face; it occurs to him that Gerard is remarkably  _ normal _ for someone that was presumed to have violently killed and mutilated his mother. And just like that, it’s like cold water has been poured over his head, and Jon remembers that, oh yes, the person in front of him was accused of doing exactly that. He recoils, but Gerard seems to be expecting that too.

“Hang on,  _ shit, _ you— you killed her! Your mother, Mary Keay, you—”

“I  _ didn’t_, though,” Gerard replies, petulantly crossing his arms. His leather trench coat pulls taut, emphasizing his rather broad shoulders, and Jon is struck by just how much taller Gerard is than him. Could he take him in a fight? Jon doesn’t like his odds. “She did it herself, and then when I got there she made me help. Not like she was physically there afterward,  _ obviously_, so who was left? I was! Who got arrested? I did! You know...”

He’s working himself up at that point, and Jon scans the room, trying to find something that he can use as a weapon. He comes up short. There’s a letter opener on the desk, but that’s hardly useful, as Gerard is sitting just inches away from it.

Jon backs up toward the door, and seeing him, Gerard pauses, holding his hands up. “I— wait, listen. I can prove it. Not right now, but I’ve got something that would.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not entirely reassured,” Jon says grimly, but he’s practically halfway out the door already and Gerard still hasn’t so much as moved toward him, so Jon feels himself start to breathe easier. “What can prove you didn’t kill Mary Keay? Not to the police, but to me.” He’s not quite sure why he says that last part, but fundamentally, he knows that this is not something the police will understand. Jon isn’t sure why he knows that  _ he _ will.

Gerard sighs again, and when he speaks he seems to choose his words carefully. “It’s… a book.”

“Wonderful,” Jon mutters. “Another book.” Gerard lets out a short laugh. Just then, he remembers what Sasha said, so he adds, “Also, if you kill me, Tim’s going to know, so—”

“Right,” Gerard clears his throat. “Tim.” He cocks his head ever so slightly. “Boyfriend?”

“ _What? _ "

Their words start to overlap as they both fall over themselves to explain. “Sorry, I just—”

“Oh, no, we’re not—”

“—thought, ‘cause she said dinner, and—”

“—I just mean, he’s my coworker, it wouldn’t be  _ proper— _ ”

They both stop at the same time to take a breath, staring at each other, Jon beet red and Gerard apologetic. Gerard breaks first, snorting. “Not involved with Tim, then.”

Jon lets a disbelieving laugh. “Definitely not.”

“Right.”

“Right,” Jon echoes. 

“I’ll bring you the book sometime,” Gerard says, twirling a pen around his finger. Jon nods in response, and for a minute, neither of them speak. Jon’s inclined to believe Gerard’s claims of innocence; something about Mary Keay’s death has always struck him as strange, almost since he read Dominic Swain’s statement. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to see that book of his that can prove it.

He starts to count Gerard’s piercings, but he gives up after four; Jon’s no stranger to multiple studs, but even he finds himself impressed with the sheer amount of earrings he can see. A question occurs to him then, and it’s as good as any to break the tense silence. “Why Ray?”

Gerard looks up and grins widely, not missing a beat. “Ever read Fahrenheit 451?”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow and Gerard waits as he makes the connection. “You know that’s a story about book  _ burning,  _ right?”

“I do.”

“You grew up in a bookstore, why would you...” Jon trails off. If  _ Ex Altiora  _ is anything to go by, he’s well aware of the kind of books Gerard disposes of, but even so, the thought of burning books, burning  _ information _ makes him feel physically anxious. He tries to crack his knuckles, but they make no noise. 

Coughing pointedly, Gerard replies, “Not a very  _ good  _ bookstore.”

“What—”

“Archivists really don’t stop with the questions, do they? Gertrude was like that too.” Gerard glares at him for a moment, before pointedly looking around the room, but there’s no real malice in it. “So you’re her replacement, then?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, wringing his hands together. He can’t understand what Gertrude Robinson, his insufferable predecessor, has to do with this. “But what was it that you wanted to, ah, discuss?”

Gerard regards him curiously. “How much do you... know?”

“About  _ what,  _ exactly?” He lets some of his irritation seep into his tone. He’s beyond tired of it, these interconnecting statements that must mean  _ something,  _ that almost, almost form a picture that he can’t quite see. Everything is just barely out of his reach, and he’s tired of feeling like a paranoid conspiracy theorist, even as he knows in his bones that he’s onto something bigger than he could’ve imagined.

Looking taken aback, Gerard asks, “Hang on, how long have you been Archivist? When did she die?”

“Gertrude Robinson died months ago.” Jon’s voice is stiff, and all of a sudden he’s reining back his impatience like it’s a physical thing. “I’ve been head archivist for about three months. Do  _ I _ get to learn something important now?” 

“So not long at all, then. Sorry about that, I’m being awfully dense.” Is that _pity_ in Gerard’s eyes?   


“It’s good you’re self-aware, though,” Jon grumbles, crossing his arms. Gerard huffs a laugh and picks up one of the pens on Jon’s desk, clicking it several times. Jon has been told, many times and very firmly, that clicking pens is annoying, but it’s entirely endearing, watching Gerard fiddle with things in the same way Jon does.

“Right. Suppose I deserve that.” He looks at Jon, who gestures for him to continue. “You know the books that show up in the statements?  _ Ex Altiora _ and the like?”

“I do. The Leitners.”

“Exactly,” Gerard says brightly. “That  _ bastard _ .”

That startles a laugh out of Jon. “I’ll agree with you there, though I suspect you have far more legitimate reasons to hate him than I do.”

“Any reason to hate Jurgen Leitner is a legitimate reason,” Gerard tells him, apparently completely sincerely. “At any rate, I burn them. They’re—”

Suddenly, a door slams from outside the office, and Gerard looks up in alarm. Their eyes meet, but Jon’s already turning to wrestle the door open. Gerard’s at his side in a moment, and he’s out the door before Jon can blink. As Jon emerges near the assistants’ desks, he sees Sasha _ ,  _ of all people, breathing hard and dragging a chair to barricade the door that leads out of the archives.

“Sasha, what—” he starts, but she answers before he gets the question out.

“Michael. I think I asked too many questions. It got—testy. It said it didn’t like the Institute so I— I came back here, but—” She stops, exhaling hard and running a hand through her hair. “I wasn’t that far away, so I just ran.”

“Christ,” Jon mutters, wringing his hands, at a loss for what to do. “Are you alright?”

“He let me go— I could tell.”

“I don’t see anyone.” Gerard looks over from where he stands, peering out of the window. “Michael who?”

“He’s not a  _ person,  _ he’s—” She pauses, frustrated. “He called himself a melody, I think? Nothing about him made  _ sense _ .”

At that, Gerard’s face hardens. “Then barricading the door won’t—”

"No, it  _ really  _ won't!" A voice singsongs from behind them, and Sasha goes rigid. They turn, slowly, and a man with long, blond hair and hands like knives waves at them, leaning against Tim's desk for all the world like he belongs there. He—or it—almost looks like an ordinary person smiling at them, but the edges of his body are  _ wrong  _ somehow, flickering like static on a TV. "I said I don’t  _ like _ this place, this altar of knowing what cannot be known, not that I couldn't just  _ stroll _ in here like anyone else!"

Its voice is almost musical, but in the way of discordant minor seconds, of music that grates on Jon’s nerves and raises his hackles. Almost beautiful, but distorted beyond recognition.

Jon goes still, piecing everything together as Sasha curses under her breath and steps slightly in front of him, a gesture that’s as protective as it is infuriating. Her voice is flinty as she says, “You also said you wouldn’t hurt us, so don’t. You want Jane Prentiss gone, and so do we.”

It laughs, and Jon has to resist the urge to flinch. It’s a creaking door inside of a mirror shattering inside of a scream, and then all at once it’s a regular laugh, but Sasha doesn’t so much as blink; Jon suddenly finds it very easy to imagine Sasha arguing with this thing in the coffee shop, and holding her own, no less. 

Still standing by the window, Gerard says, “Get out.” He speaks softly, but his eyes are eerily focused on Michael, and Jon feels a stab of fear. He’d been hoping Gerard would stay unnoticed.

“Ger—” he starts, but Gerard holds up a finger and Jon slams his mouth shut with a small  _ click _ . He knows Gerard has significantly more experience with the supernatural than they do, but that doesn’t stop him from exchanging a worried glance with Sasha as Michael circles Gerard curiously, toying with the lapels of his trench coat and leaning over his shoulder.

“I can’t come to have a conversation with that one?” it asks, gesturing to Sasha. “They’re both in rather  _ extraordinary  _ danger, you know!” At the sound of its excitement, amidst everything, Jon feels a twinge of annoyance; it sounds as though it’s about to sit back and watch a particularly delightful movie.

Gerard doesn’t take the bait, still not taking his eyes off Michael. His voice is oddly heavy when he says, “I  _ see _ you. I see you, and she sees you, and most of all, the Archivist sees you.” 

Michael recoils, glancing back at Jon with genuine fear in its eyes. “The Archivist doesn’t—”

It’s interrupted by Gerard, who adds, “You enter the inner sanctum of the Watcher and expect not to be seen? To be known? I  _ know  _ you.” Michael glares at Gerard venomously, but Gerard, to Jon’s fascination, doesn’t flinch. “Go.”

Jon’s ears pop, and with a deafening sound like glass shattering, Michael is gone. Gerard exhales hard, falling back against the wall. 

"Fuck," he groans, rubbing a hand over his face, and after a stunned moment, Jon hurries over, bracing himself as he guides Gerard to lean on him. He staggers under Gerard’s weight, but if Gerard notices, he doesn’t comment, and Jon maneuvers him toward the break room with a mounting sense of worry.

Sasha pulls the chair away from underneath the doorknob and wrenches open the door. “Nothing.” Turning back as Jon deposits Gerard on the scratchy sofa, she takes a deep, shuddering breath, running her hands through her hair. “God, I’m sorry. I— I thought it couldn’t come in here. I wouldn’t have—”

“That’s hardly your fault,” Jon says, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Gerard murmurs something, but when Jon asks, he doesn’t reply, rolling over and passing out almost immediately. “Besides, he did—er, whatever he did, and no one was hurt.”

“Well, besides himself, maybe,” Sasha replies, coming to stand next to him, and they stare at the sleeping man with trepidation. “He  _ is _ just sleeping, right? I guess the hospital’s not … strictly necessary.”

Jon doesn’t say what he's sure they were both thinking: that he would rather take Gerard to the hospital as soon as possible. “Er— perhaps if he doesn’t wake up after a certain amount of time?”

“What—” She pulls her cell phone out of pocket and checks the time. “Right, so it’s just after six. If he’s not up in the morning, then the hospital?”

“Right.”

For another long moment, they watch Gerard, and it occurs to Jon that Sasha still thinks his name is Ray. He debates telling her the truth, but ultimately, he decides against it. Gerard should be the one to choose when and where he divulges his name; and besides, when he first came into the archive, Ray was the name he introduced himself to Sasha with, so it’s hardly Jon’s place to go against any precautions Gerard may have taken. 

Just then, Sasha looks up from her phone. “Just texted Tim not to come in tomorrow— Martin picked a damn good week to go visit his mother, right?”

Jon laughs, breathless with the sort of relief that only comes from having been thoroughly shaken to one's core. "Yes, he certainly did."

"And also, er, Tim wanted us both over at his place," she says. "Something about safety in numbers." Her tone drips with sarcasm, but Jon certainly wouldn't blame her if she'd rather be far away from the Institute after everything.

"And what about him?" Jon asks, nodding down at Gerard.

Sasha smiles sheepishly. "Sort of didn't tell him about the giant goth passed out in the break room."

"Then what on  _ earth _ did you tell him?" 

"I just left this bit out! Otherwise he would've marched down here to see for himself." She raises her eyebrows in expectation, and after a moment, Jon concedes, making a face. Tim absolutely would. "Don't worry, I'll tell him when we see him."

"I, er—" Jon glances down at Gerard again. He's still intimidatingly large, but asleep as he is, he’s… less so. "I think I'll stay here, actually."

Sasha doesn't look particularly surprised, crossing her arms and leaning on the desk behind her. "You know Tim's going to be worried."

" _Ray's _ certainly not going to attack me while he's sleeping." Jon takes his glasses off and scrubs a hand over his face. "Besides, I'm reasonably sure he saved our lives."

"He did do that, didn't he? Well, will you be safe?"

"Like I said—"

"I mean if Michael comes back. What if Ray's not awake to drive it off again?"

"It—" Jon can't explain it, the sudden pit of surety in his stomach. Whatever Gerard had said before had pushed everything into perfect alignment, just for a moment. He could see what Michael was, and he knows that whatever it was, the Institute was its fundamental opposite. Gerard had  _ terrified _ it. "It won't come back."

They go back and forth for another couple minutes, debating whether or not Sasha should stay the night at the archives, but Jon’s head isn’t really in it. It feels like the events of the day are all hitting him at once, and his mind is racing; Gerard had referred to him in particular as the archivist while he was speaking to Michael, and that seemed to dissuade it. Was he in some kind of danger, apart from everything else? And Michael didn’t like being seen or known, so there must have been something in the archives, or the Institute itself that rivaled Michael’s power. What could it possibly be? He’s so close to an answer he can almost taste it, and he knows with a resigned sense of self-awareness that he won’t be sleeping tonight.

“Jon?” Sasha says, and he snaps out of it. She looks at him expectantly, and he realizes with a jolt that he’d missed the last thing she said.

“Hm? Sorry.”

“I just said I’m going to head to Tim’s. You’ll be fine here?”   


“I should be, yes,” he replies, before realizing that’s hardly the most reassuring response. “I mean, I’ll certainly call you if anything happens.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” she replies with a faint smile, shouldering her bag. “Alright, then. I suppose I’ll see you in the morning.”

As he waves to Sasha, his mind wanders back to Gerard, still sleeping soundly on the couch. He turns to watch him for a moment. His studded jacket is really rather striking, Jon thinks, and not unlike something Jon would have worn in uni. He nudges Gerard once, and when he doesn't respond, Jon sighs and grabs the blanket from the anteroom. It’s thin, but it should cover him quite nicely, even if it's just slightly too small. Gerard sighs as he drapes it over him, and Jon starts to smile before he can help it. 

He needs Gerard to wake up. He's got so many questions, and Gerard seems to be the only person that can properly answer them; Jon has ideas, of course, regarding where he can continue his research, but the problem is that the statements are nothing more than one time encounters from people that are hardly involved in supernatural circles. What he needs is someone that lives in that world, and from everything he’s seen, he's very sure Gerard fits the bill.

And Gerard  _ did _ come to the Institute specifically to speak with him, so that must count for something, right? He can’t help the small thrill he feels at the thought; Gerard might not be dangerous, but his eyes are still magnetic, and meeting his gaze is still like a circuit snapping into place. He’s compelling enough that Jon finds himself actively dismissing the thought that they’re friends. They’re not friends — they spoke for ten minutes, and Gerard (possibly) saved his life. Any interest Jon has in him is strictly professional.

God, he needs to wake up, if only to stop Jon’s mind from running in circles.

Once Jon can actually pick his brain, he knows Gerard will be a veritable treasure trove of information. He feels a bit odd, watching him while he sleeps, but Jon's just got so many  _ questions_. His gaze lingers on the eye tattoos on his knuckles, and it takes him a moment to tear it away. Their design is fairly simple, but they’re far more captivating than they have any right to be.

With a sharp exhale, he turns away and goes to his office. After a moment of consideration, he leaves the door open; he still can’t see Gerard, but one can never be too careful, he supposes, and he’d really rather be able to see anything that could be outside the door.

Jon grabs a statement off the shelf and sits at his desk, preparing himself to reread Sebastian Adekoya’s account of how he found  _ The Boneturner’s Tale_. It’s as good a place to start as any, especially since Gerard seemed to want to discuss Leitners. Time spins out away from him as he reads, and he doesn’t notice when the clock strikes seven, nor does he notice when it reaches eight o’ clock. One statement leads to another, and when he finally comes up for air, it’s almost half past eight, and he gets up in a hurry, cursing himself. 

A quick look confirms that Gerard is still quite asleep, so he takes three blueberry muffins from the fridge (courtesy of Martin), heats them up, and takes them back to his desk. As he’s been looking, Jon’s search has slightly shifted; instead of combing through the statements for mentions of Leitners, he’s frantically searching for anyone that matches Gerard’s description. If asked, he wouldn't be able to say why. Of course, it would likely be useful to find out more about the strange person showing up at the Institute, but practicality is hardly on Jon's mind as he reads through a statement detailing Gerard's teenage exploits, smiling faintly as he does.

When Jon falls asleep at his desk, statement still in hand, he dreams about eye tattoos and a book set ablaze. He doesn’t stir when, a couple hours later, a tall figure quietly leaves the archives, casting an uneasy glance back as he goes.

**Author's Note:**

> i genuinely don't know how long this thing is gonna end up being, just so you know. thanks for reading! drop a comment if you like!
> 
> come talk to me about the goth himself on tumblr @archivistim! <3


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